


In Some Way Heavier For It

by geckoholic



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, By Bat Standards At Least, Concussions, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Recovered Memories, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 16:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12535784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: That Jason has shit luck is no news to anyone – he died after all – but getting stuck with the demon spawn for a nursemaid is a recent highlight.





	In Some Way Heavier For It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelsunknown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsunknown/gifts).



> I had a hard time choosing between this prompt and the Gotham one, but in the end, I bowed to the fact that I'm only a casual viewer when it comes to Gotham and, you know, writing Jay and Dami was too tempting. Not quite as lighthearted as you wanted, but I tried to keep the angst to a minimum, so I hope you'll like it regardless.
> 
> Beta-read by volavi, and chiaki brainstormed with me. Thank you both!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Between The Stars" by Canyon City.

That Jason has shit luck is no news to anyone – he _died_ after all – but getting stuck with the demon spawn for a nursemaid is a recent highlight. Team Batman is stretched thin tonight, busy with something wicked in the sewer, and he understands that no one had the time to heave his concussed ass back to the cave and put him under Alfred's care instead. Some quick field medicine, and now here he is, holed up in an abandoned shop a few blocks from the kerfuffle with the sunniest company the extended family has to offer.

Damian sits across from him, hands in his lap, and taking the task Dick assigned to him literally: he's ceaselessly _watching_ Jason. Staring at him, really. It's eery. 

“You can find something else to do, you know,” he says, and doesn't like how his speech is starting to slur. He got a good knock on the head, and it's starting to ring something fierce too. He blinks, and Damian's face goes a bit fuzzy at the edges. “Don't have to watch me like a hawk. All you gotta do is make sure I don't fall asleep, or fall over and brain myself for real this time.” 

Damian narrows his eyes at him. “What do you suggest I occupy myself with instead? I cannot go back out there and contribute my part in the fight. There is nothing useful to do in this stupid hideout.” 

He's a strange child. But then again, it's not like the genetic lottery gave him a fair shot at being normal.

“Fine,” says Jason, pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning against an oncoming wave of nausea. “Suit yourself.” 

And he must have gone pale to boot, because Damian cocks his head. “You are unwell.” 

“That's kinda the reason we're benched,” Jason replies, but he fails to inject it with enough venom to give the comment the right sarcastic bite. He's really losing his edge here. 

Damian frowns. “I mean, your condition is worsening.” 

“Yep,” Jason confirms, and the next slice of witty backtalk gets preempted altogether, because he's too busy swallowing back bile. That's so not happening. He's got a few hard limits left, and puking all over himself in front of the littlest Wayne is definitely on the list. “Can you maybe – ” he says instead, then has to swallow again, and Damian is on his feet before he's got an opportunity to finish that sentence. 

The nausea subsides after a few more quick swallows, but Jason nevertheless clutches the dirty basket Damian hands him like it's worth a million bucks. “Thank you.” 

“You're welcome,” Damian says, retaking his seat on the ground across from Jason. He idly picks at his sleeve, glancing back and forth between that and Jason's face, and suddenly looks younger, softer. More his age. Like he's worried, and that can't be right, because a prerequisite for _worry_ would be that he cares for Jason's continued existence in the first place. 

Jason blinks again, and his vision blurs and tips. The image of Damian in front of him swims out of focus, then clears, but... no, that's not Damian. That's not Gotham. The flaring heat, the opulent decor on the curtains; this is the League. Talia. Back in... That can't be right. He looks back up, and the child that's sitting in front of him is younger, dressed differently, but still recognizably Damian. Except for the fact he's smiling, that is – all giddy and excited. Jason doesn't think he's ever seen Damian Wayne smile, but here he is, hands held up like they're in the middle of a clapping game, eyes wide with happy anticipation like he's waiting for Jason's next move. He can't be more than six or seven years old, chubby cheeks and all, and he's actually kinda cute, what with the bright expression and the lack of murderous intent. He's saying something in Arabic that Jason can't understand, but the meaning is obvious, and Jason smiles back and moves his hands to clap them together with the boy's, counting out a rhythm – 

Jason coughs, and when he opens his eyes this time he's listing to the side and Damian, either version, isn't in front of him anymore. He's kneeling by Jason's side, a hand clutching his arm, trying to pull him upright despite the fact that Jason's much larger, much heavier than him. 

With a groan and some effort, biting his lip to keep from losing his lunch after all, Jason rights himself. He squints and Damian, trying to puzzle out if what he just saw could have been an actual, real memory. “Did we ever meet, back in Arabia? While I was a...” He gestures at his temple, quick circle motions with his index finger to indicate insanity. “A vegetable?” 

Damian huffs and looks away. He hurriedly stands up, arms akimbo. “Of course not. I'm the heir of the demon. I would have been kept clear of the likes of you.” 

For all his skill and training, the kid remains a terrible, super obvious liar. The words come out with the correct note of affronted disdain, but he's practically blushing. But before Jason gets to decide whether he wants to press further, get to the truth, their comms crackle with Dick's voice. 

“We're all but done in the sewer,” he says. “I'm en route to pick you two up.” 

And Jason figures it doesn't matter. The person Damian may have met back with the League doesn't exist anymore – if it even ever was _a person_ , rather than the shadow of a dead boy, more than a few marbles short of a full set. Whoever they are now, their roles are set, and Damian will have his reasons to keep any prior meetings to himself. 

 

*** 

 

A few days later, in the early hours of the morning, Jason is on his way home from a surveillance job in the harbor. He got rained on all night, he's cranky, and the last thing he expects is to find self-declared Current and Superior Robin lingering around his front door. Well, in a manner of speaking. Few of Jason's boltholes have actual front doors. 

“Ah, boy bother,” he sing-songs, gaining a certain immature satisfaction from the way the frown lines on the kid's face deepen. “What can I do for you today?” 

Damian kicks his feet, then looks up, his expression conflicted but determined. “I didn't know who you were. That you used to work with my father.” He scowls. “I think you could say introducing us was a quirk of my mother's strange sense of humor.” 

Crediting Talia with a sense of humor might be too kind, but, Damian _is_ her son. Jason would place a bet on a hidden agenda, some sort of cruel ploy, but with no evidence for that, he keeps the thought to himself. “So she sent me to play with you?” 

“I have no means of knowing her intentions,” Damian says and cuts his eyes away. Jason wonders what hurts more: the memory of him, or the memory of Talia. The latter might be more likely. 

“Hey.” Jason waits for Damian to glance back up and smiles. “Were we friends?” 

Damian stares at him for a moment, uncertain. Then the takes a breath and diverts his attention to his wrist computer, tapping on it, and looks back up with a newly steeled and unreadable expression. “Father noticed my absence. He is not pleased. I must head back.” 

Still a shit liar; Jason is beyond certain that Bruce is peacefully, obliviously pacing in the cave right now, as one does at ass o'clock in the morning. But he lets him get away with it. Maybe this will change something; maybe it won't. Either way, there's no use in pressing the kid for more information, more of what Jason doesn't remember, in trying to wrench it from him when he's not ready to talk about it. 

“Don't send my regards,” he says, waving him off. 

Damian gives him a theatrical eye roll that means he's _definitely_ spending too much time with Grayson before he shoots out a line in the vague direction of the Manor and disappears into the the early morning sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
